The Shorter Poems of Robert Bridges
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This is a reproduction of a library book that was digitized by Google as part of an ongoing effort to preserve the information in books and make it universally accessible. https://books.google.com UC-NRLF 851 *B ISA 33M H THG UNIYeRSlTY Of CALIFORNIA LIBRARY q c _„ c5cXibris "y^-foaMc^ ftvw^ The Publishers intend this book to be sold to the Public at the advertised price, and supply it to the trade on terms which will not allow of discount. 7 S THE SHORTER POEMS OF ROBERT BRIDGES BY THE SAME AUTHOR. Just Published. ACHILLES IN SCYROS. A STAGE PLAY. Price Two Shillings. ED. BUMPUS, HOLBORN BARS. LONDON, E.C. THE SHORTER POEMS OF ROBERT BRIDGES GEO BELL & SONS LONDON ©jrforo HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY BOOK I. ERRATA. p. 44, 1. 16, for empty read airy p. 80, 1. 25, for trees read the trees 396440 Oxford HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY BOOK I. 396.440 ELEGY. Clear and gentle stream ! Known and loved so long, That hast heard the song, And the idle dream Of my boyish day ; While I once again Down thy margin stray, In the selfsame strain Still my voice is spent, With my old lament, And my idle dream, Clear and gentle stream! Where my old seat was Here again I sit, Where the long boughs knit Over stream and grass A translucent eaves: Where back eddies play Shipwreck with the leaves, And the proud swans stray, Sailing one by one Out of stream and sun, And the fish lie cool In their chosen pool. B 2 : .--. : poems. Many an afternoon Of the summer day Dreaming here I lay; And I know how soon, Idly at its hour, First the deep bell hums From the minster tower, And then evening comes, Creeping up the glade, With her lengthening shade, And the tardy boon, Of her brightening moon. Clear and gentle stream ! Ere again I go Where thou dost not flow, Well does it beseem Thee to hear again Once my youthful song, That familiar strain Silent now so long : Be as I content With my old lament, And my idle dream, Clear and gentle stream! II. ELEGY. The wood is bare : a river-mist is steeping The trees that winter's chill of life bereaves. Only their stiffened boughs break silence, weeping Over their fallen leaves: BK. La. s That lie upon the dank earth brown and rotten, Miry and matted in the soaking wet : Forgotten with the spring, that is forgotten By them that can forget. Yet it was here we walked when ferns were springing, And through the mossy bank shot bud and blade : — Here found in summer, when the birds were singing, A green and pleasant shade. 'Twas here we loved in sunnier days and greener ; And now, in this disconsolate decay, I come to see her where I most have seen her. And touch the happier day. For on this path, at every turn and corner, The fancy of her figure on me falls: Yet walks she with the slow step of a mourner, Nor hears my voice that calls. So through my heart there winds a track of feeling, A path of memory, that is all her own : Whereto her ghostly figure ever stealing Haunts the sad spot alone. About her steps the trunks are bare, the branches Drip heavy tears upon her downcast head; And bleed from unseen wounds no warm sun staunches, For the year's sun is dead. And dead leaves wrap the fruits that summer planted : And birds that love the South have taken wing. The wanderer, loitering o'er the scene enchanted, Weeps, and despairs of spring. POEMS. III. Poor withered rose and dry, Skeleton of a rose, Risen to testify To love's sad close: Treasured for love's sweet sake That of joy past Thou might'st again awake Memory at last. Yet is thy perfume sweet; Thy petals red Yet tell of summer heat, And the gay bed: Yet yet recall the glow Of the gazing sun, When at thy bush we two Joined hands in one. But, rose, thou hast not seen, Thou hast not wept The change that passed between, Whilst thou hast slept. To me thou seemest yet The dead dream's thrall : While I live and forget Dream, truth and all. Thou art more fresh than I, Rose, sweet and red : Salt on my pale cheeks lie The tears I shed. BK. I. 3. 4. IV. The cliff-top has a carpet Of lilac gold and green : The blue sky bounds the ocean, The white clouds scud between. A flock of gulls are wheeling And wailing round my seat ; Above my head the heaven, The sea beneath my feet. THE OCEAN. Were I a cloud I'd gather My skirts up in the air, And fly I well know whither, And rest I well know where. As pointed the star surely, The legend tells of old, Where the wise kings might offer Myrrh, frankincense, and gold ; Above the house I 'd hover Where dwells my love, and wait Till haply I might spy her Throw back the garden-gate. There in the summer evening I would bedeck the moon; I would float down, and screen her From the sun's rays at noon; And if her flowers should languish, Or wither in the drought, Upon her tall white lilies I 'd pour my heart's blood out : ©*for& HOKACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY BOOK I. £RRata. P' 8o>'- *b,for trees read the trees 396440 HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY • • • • • > I BOOK I. 396.440 POEMS. So if she wore one only, And shook not out the rain, Were I a cloud, O cloudlet, I had not lived in vain. A CLOUD. But were I thou, O ocean, I would not chafe and fret As thou, because a limit To thy desires is set. I would be blue, and gentle, Patient, and calm, and see If my smiles might not tempt her, My love, to come to me. I'd make my depths transparent, And still, that she should lean O'er the boat's edge, to ponder The sights that swam between. I would command strange creatures, Of bright hue and quick fin, To stir the water near her, And tempt her bare arm in. I 'd teach her spend the summer With me: and I can tell, That, were I thou, O ocean, My love should love me well. But on the mad cloud scudded, The breeze it blew so stiff; And the sad ocean bellowed, And pounded at the cliff. BK. I. 5. V. I heard a linnet courting His lady in the spring; His mates were idly sporting, Nor stayed to hear him sing His song of love. — I fear my speech distorting His tender love. One phrase was all his pleading, He spoke of love and home: To her who gave him heeding He sang his question, ' Come.' — His gay sweet notes, So sadly marred in the reading ! His tender notes! And when he ceased, the hearer Re-echoed the refrain, And swiftly perching nearer, ' Come, come,' she sang again. — Ah for their loves ! Would that my verse spake clearer, Their tender loves! Blest union of twin creatures Unmarred by sense of doubt: All summer's dry misfeatures Such springtide trust bars out ; But of their loves Fall short our wiser natures : Their tender loves ! POEMS. VI. Dear lady, when thou frownest, And my true love despisest, And all thy vows disownest That sealed my venture wisest; I think thy pride's displeasure Neglects a matchless treasure Exceeding price and measure. But when again thou smilest, And love for love returnest, And fear with joy beguilest, And takest truth in earnest ; Then, though I sheer adore thee, The sum of my love for thee Seems poor, scant, and unworthy. VII. I will not let thee go. Ends all our month-long love in this? Can it be summed up so, Quit in a single kiss? I will not let thee go. I will not let thee go. If thy words' breath could scare thy deeds, As the soft south can blow And toss the feathered seeds, Then might I let thee go. I will not let thee go. Had not the great sun seen, I might; Or were he reckoned slow To bring the false to light, Then might I let thee go. BK. I. 6. 7. 8. 11 I will not let thee go. The stars that crowd the summer skies Have watched us so below With all their million eyes, I dare not let thee go. I will not let thee go. Have we not chid the changeful moon, Now rising late, and now Because she set too soon, And shall I let thee go? I will not let thee go. Have not the young flowers been content, Plucked ere their buds could blow, To seal our sacrament? I cannot let thee go. I will not let thee go. I hold thee by too many bands: Thou sayest farewell, and lo! I have thee by the hands, And will not let thee go. VIII. I found to-day out walking The flower my love loves best. What when I stooped to pluck it, Could dare my hand arrest ? Was it a snake lay curling About the root's thick crown? Or did some hidden bramble Tear my hand reaching down? There was no snake uncurling, And no thorn wounded me ; POEMS. 'Twas my heart checked me, sighing She is beyond the sea.